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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886570">Inherent</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterwords/pseuds/masterwords'>masterwords</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aaron Hotchner Whump, Field Dressing, Frank Castle Whump, Graphic Description, Hurt Aaron Hotchner, Hurt Frank Castle, M/M, Rough Sex, Whump, bullet wounds, wound care</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:54:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,231</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886570</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterwords/pseuds/masterwords</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aaron Hotchner goes to New York City, he's got one thing on his mind:  Frank Castle.  Unintended consequences of a relationship with Castle was blood, lots of blood, often some of your own but Aaron didn't mind because there were some silver linings involved as well.  (Implied smutty business, nothing too graphic because I'm garbage at writing graphic smut.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaron Hotchner/Frank Castle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Inherent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my new obsession.  The idea occurred to me, and now I can't get it out of my head...I'm still a diehard for Hotch/Rossi, but Hotch/Castle (Hastle! Yeah I just went there.) is giving me all the explody feels.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>“They've promised that dreams can come true, but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams too.”  Oscar Wilde</i>
</p><p> </p><p>New York City in the winter was something to behold.  In all of its absurdity, the madness of it was that it was really very simple.  There were a few rules you just followed, and the city would let you in, or at the very least, it wouldn't outright reject you.  Feel you out, give you an opportunity to prove your worth.  The surface was beauty and art, but of course there was a grotesque undercurrent, without which it would not be New York City.  Under each massive sky scraper was a foundation of dirt and rot that stretched back centuries, the bones of old New York keeping warm just beneath the streets.  Aaron Hotchner loved New York for all of the wrong reasons, but they were his and whenever he stepped foot on those sidewalks he felt it in his bones.  His soul was wretched, destroyed by years of misery, trying to be the good guy and getting nowhere but when it found its way to those city streets, it sang.  It cried out that it was home.  He came here to let his soul breathe, let it roll around in the filth that he otherwise kept at bay – this was how he did his job, showed up every day to see the ugly things no one else wanted to see.  They all had their darkness, they all had itches to be scratched that were safeguarded.  You couldn't see what they saw and not let it become part of you, even just a little.  </p><p>He tugged his pea coat tight around his thin frame and pushed his gloved hands deep into his pockets, feeling the sidewalk beneath his feet whisper through his freezing muscles.  He wasn't heading anywhere in particular, but wherever he was going, he knew what he'd find.  He always found it.   The one who made his soul scream, the one who made him burn from the inside out, the one who made him feel.  He only came here when he was so far gone that he'd forgotten what feeling was like, and the other would know, would seek him out, soul bonded in pain and blood.  In his pocket was his penance, payment for sins to be committed.  The other would be carrying his own payment, would know what to offer, and they would find each other.  </p><p>Passing by a quiet diner, he felt an icy chill trickle down his spine.  He was being followed.  He shivered and tugged his jacket tighter, picking up his pace a little.  The end of the sidewalk came to an abrupt halt, making way for an alley, and he made a quick decision to peel off to the left, ducking into the shadows.  It took only a minute before he could smell what he could only describe as home – sweat and soap and blood, it smelled like the city itself had taken on life and began to breathe.  </p><p>“Aaron,” came the soft, gruff voice from beside him.  Aaron smiled, it was a grim mockery of a smile, all white teeth and shadows.  </p><p>“Frank,” was Aaron's reply, and without any further pleasantries they were wrapping each other in a quick, tight hug.  Frank always squeezed a little tighter than Aaron, and Aaron always melted a little more into the embrace than Frank did, everything complimentary between them.  Frank needed to hug, and Aaron needed to be hugged.  A silent understanding passed between them, and without breaking the embrace entirely, they began walking down the darkened alley toward the next street and the next.  Words never uttered, but they both knew where to go, no leader, no follower.  Their feet found the same rhythm as if their hearts had the same beat.  Frank's arm was protective and strong against Aaron's lower back, gloved fingers digging into Aaron's hip, pressing hard against the wool coat to feel the flesh and bone beneath.  He craved it.  </p><p>Finally, the river.  That murky river, the gateway to the city's secrets, rushing and crying out to them.  They descended some stairs, into a darkened hole beneath the street, some secret lair that only Frank Castle and his kind would know.  Aaron's eyes adjusted almost immediately to the dark, feeling the thick, musty air hold him tight.  Frank lead the way through the caverns, the underbelly of the great city until they found another set of stairs leading up into a warehouse.  </p><p>“Work or play?” Aaron asked softly, his lips dusting against Frank's earlobe, hot breath causing the hair on the back of Frank's neck to stand bolt upright.  Frank grinned and laced his fingers with Aaron's, dragging him into a darkened manager's office, disheveled and dusty.  </p><p>“Both,” Frank growled, shutting the door behind them and throwing Aaron up against the wall, advancing on him like a lion on the prowl.  He placed one hand flat against the wall beside Aaron's head and leaned in, pressing his lips hard against the taller man's, Aaron's head grinding against the wall painfully.  Frank bit into Aaron's lip, drawing blood and lapping it up, tasting the life in the other man like it would sustain his own.  Without another moment passing, Frank's hand tore its way down into Aaron's pants, savagely taking the thing he needed most, the feeling of passion and life and love.  Aaron was all of those things, he was heavy breathing and blood pounding and heart thumping wildly against the wall of his ribs.  Frank was a dealer of death, and Aaron gave him life.  </p><p>The sound of metal crashing against metal outside of the protection in their office made Frank seize, Aaron's hands grabbing at him in a desperate panic for Frank to continue.  Frank just smiled against Aaron's lips, a devilish twinkle in his eye.  </p><p>“Time to clock in,” Frank muttered, pressing his hips hard against Aaron's, bone against bone, and after that final injury he pushed himself away from the wall and lurched toward the desk where he'd stashed all of his tools.  He grinned at Aaron again in that feral way he had and pressed one finger to his lips, shushing the man with the wild eyes who was angry and not at all surprised at the interruption.  Frank was a workaholic as much as he was.  He watched as Frank slid up against the door, peering through the closed blinds and out the office window before he slammed the door wide open and announced his presence to the scum who were about to meet their maker.  The gunfire and shouts rang in Aaron's ears and he slid down onto his haunches in a corner, covering his ears against the intense pain the chaos was causing in his head.  It had been so long since he'd felt this brand of pain, this searing through his skull he'd almost forgotten it.  He squeezed his eyes shut a moment and grounded himself there, breathing through it, there was no panic in his veins, just pain.  Frank would be okay, he always was, and Aaron knew he'd be alright too but holy shit the rapid fire of the guns and the screaming were tearing his head apart from the inside out.  He was so immersed in his pain that he didn't notice the man stumble in through the doorway, not until he fell against the table with a loud bang did Aaron look up.  He reached for the gun at his waist, watching almost in slow motion as the desperate man lunged at him and landed atop him with his knife at the ready.  Aaron felt the knife slide in and through his thigh, ripping at his flesh and he bit into his lip furiously to keep from making a noise.  He held his gun at the ready, aimed directly at the man's head and blinked angrily until his eyes focused.  </p><p>“Stop!” Frank yelled, emptying a spray of bullets into the man advancing on Aaron.  They both watched as he dropped to the ground, his knife falling from his hand and clattering against the floor.  Aaron heaved a sigh and dropped back again against the wall, one hand flying to his forehead, the other to his painful ear, all the while ignoring the blood soaking through his pants.  </p><p>“You DO NOT do this, Aaron!” Frank growled, grabbing Aaron by the collar and yanking him upright. Aaron trained his eyes on Frank's, stared him down, alpha to alpha.  It took only a moment before Frank softened.  “You're not like me.  You're the good guy, you don't do this.”</p><p>“He was going to kill me...” Aaron returned through gritted teeth.  It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Frank that his un-holstered gun was justified.  Frank just shook his head and tossed Aaron back against the wall, watching as the man dropped to the floor and pressed both hands to his leg, just above his knee.  </p><p>“He get you?” Frank asked, crouching now on his haunches, fingers toying with the slash in Aaron's once pristine pant leg.  </p><p>“I'll live,” Aaron sighed, finally coming to his senses enough to realize that Frank, too, had sustained injury.  “You're shot...”</p><p>“What else is new?” Frank's reply was flippant, but laced with the truth of what he did.  He made sure these scumbags didn't get back up, but at great personal cost.  “So you wanna go back to my place this time, or some stupid fancy hotel?”</p><p>“Your place,” Aaron smiled, his lips curling into a devilish smile.  “I don't want to have to pay for the damage we're about to cause.  And I've never seen your place.”</p><p>“It ain't cos you never been invited...”</p><p>“Yeah yeah, so I don't trust you to have the best taste in decorating.”  </p><p>Frank pulled himself to his feet first, hugging his injured arm against his body and extending the other to Aaron, hefting the other man to his feet.  They made quite the pair as they left the warehouse, Aaron in his fancy pea coat and dress slacks limping along beside Frank looking like he'd just been mauled by a pack of ferocious tigers.  Frank didn't live terribly far from there, he liked to stay close to the river, that was where the action always happened.  Better for business.  He lived on the second story, and Aaron somehow managed to drag himself up the stairs miserably, the wound on his thigh burning and ripping with every stair.  A hotel would have at least provided an elevator.  </p><p>“Home sweet home,” Frank cooed as he flung the door open to a great wide barren room.  There was a blanket on the floor in the corner, a few bowls stacked next to the sink and a cup of plastic forks and spoons beside what Aaron could only guess was the only food Frank had in his place.  Tuna, chicken, soup, beef stew – all canned, none requiring any real preparation other than simply opening the lid.  Some might call him insane, but Aaron felt himself pained with a hint of jealousy at the simplicity of it all – no one needed him, no one expected him to be a certain way or do a certain thing.  Aaron knew it was ridiculous, this man wasn't born like this, he was made into this through great loss and suffering, in the same way that Aaron was the man he saw in the mirror every day.  Loss and suffering changes each person in different ways.  These two men had both lost their families in the worst ways, and each of them took a different path away from those losses – yet they found each other, and in each other they found what they were missing.  Frank found his own humanity in Aaron, and Aaron found relief in Frank.  Relief from pretending to be something, someone he was not.  Relief from putting on the brave face when he was falling apart.  Relief from being the persona he had created – with Frank he was just Aaron.  Destroyed, broken, beautiful Aaron who could make mistakes and get angry and say stupid things and feel things and still be worthy.  </p><p>Frank had gone to the bathroom, a tiny little closet sized room, and come back with a well-stocked first aid kit – probably the only thing of any value in the entire place, if Aaron had to guess, aside from the cupboards that he assumed were stock full of weapons.  Why else would he keep his food and utensils on the counter?  </p><p>“You wanna do me first?  I'm the one with a bullet in me.”  </p><p>Aaron nodded and slipped out of his coat, laying it neatly on the counter before approaching Frank at the sink.  </p><p>“Gloves?” Aaron asked, and Frank laughed.  “Right.  Who needs them.  Soap?”</p><p>“Geeeeeeeeeeeeezus Hotchner, just start diggin'.  I got some kinda cheap alcohol on top of the fridge you can use to clean it up after.”  </p><p>Aaron sighed, but he set to it, squaring up his shoulders and taking a deep breath before plunging his thumb and forefinger into the gaping hole just below Frank's shoulder.  He tried to focus on what he was doing and ignore the hisses and growls and gut wrenching whimpers from the other man, pushing forward until he had a grip on the bullet and managed to pull it out.  Blood rushed from the wound but his other hand found its way there and packed gauze against the hole quickly, pushing it in tight and watching it quickly turn red.  He reached for the vodka at the top of the fridge, stretching as far as he was able while still maintaining pressure on the wound, and used his teeth to help twist the cap open.  Quickly, he released the pressure long enough to douse the whole thing in vodka, and as Frank cried out in pain he packed a new pile of gauze into the wound.  More and more gauze, then tape and it was done.  Aaron felt woozy, and he was sure it wasn't from what he'd just done.  He wiggled his toes inside of his boot and could feel the blood inside, his toes were swimming in it.  Reaching for the counter, he steadied himself and blinked a few times, taking a swig of the vodka because he knew what was coming next.  He watched with double vision as Frank set to, readying a suture kit.  Before he could react, Frank was forcing him down onto the floor, pressing his back against the sink and ripping open his pant leg.  Aaron's knee and everything below was doused in blood, sticky and deep purple, the gash on his thigh like a sick smile.  </p><p>“This isn't gonna feel good, pretty boy,” Frank muttered with the needle between his teeth and the bottle of vodka now in his hand.  He held it up to Aaron's lips, forcing him to take another drink before he dumped some of the liquid onto the wound.  Aaron inhaled sharply but kept his cool, he knew that was only the beginning, it wouldn't pay to lose it now.  With steady hands, Frank held the wound closed and began stitching, and Aaron couldn't make himself look away.  He felt every prick, every rip, but it was like it belonged to someone else and he was only an observer.  Frank should have been a doctor, he thought wearily, blinking in that lazy way of someone who'd lost a lot of blood and followed it up with booze.  When Frank had finished, he doused it again in vodka, put the bottle to Aaron's lips and made him finish it off, then bandages and tape and it was all done.  </p><p>“So what are you gonna tell your team?” Frank asked, sliding down until he was shoulder to shoulder now with Aaron, leaning heavily against each other.  Aaron laughed.  It was slow and a little unhinged.</p><p>“Twisted my ankle running?” he offered, shrugging.  “Doesn't matter. No one will ask. They never do.”</p><p>“Want me to make them?”  Frank asked, almost offended by what he was hearing.  Aaron shook his head and sighed.  </p><p>“Nope,” was all Aaron said before leaning in and attempting to start back up where they'd been interrupted earlier.  He leaned against Frank heavily, a little drunk, and squeezed the other man's arms, relishing in the whimper that escaped when he squeezed a little too hard at the fresh wound and all those bruises.  Frank didn't stop him though, just pulled him closer and began the work he'd started hours ago, to have his way with his favorite FBI agent.  By the time they'd finished, they had bled through every bandage they'd just applied and had to redo some of it – Aaron had even broken a few of his stitches, which was irritating but after what they'd just done he hardly noticed.  They took a few minutes to clean each other up before making their way to the blanket and lying down, curled around each other between the scratchy wool blankets Frank called a bed.  Tomorrow night, Aaron would be in his plush bed in his suburban home with his beautiful son sleeping down the hall, but tonight he was happy lying on the hard floor beside a man who made him free.  A little blood spilled couldn't keep him from staying.  </p><p>In the morning, Aaron threw on some of Frank's clothes in order to go out and purchase some of his own, clothing he could return home in that no one would question.  He returned with an arm full of breakfast bagels and cream cheese, two coffees and crisp new clothes.  Frank was seated naked and cross-legged on his blanket eating out of a tin of ravioli with a spork and laughed at the sight of Aaron walking into his apartment with more in his arms than he had in the entire place.  </p><p>“I brought breakfast,” Aaron announced, limping to the counter and dropping the bags.  He rifled through until he found the bagels and cream cheese, doing one up extra thick with the back of a spork for his friend.  “Better than Boyardee.”  </p><p>“Sure,” Frank muttered, tearing into the bagel happily.  He agreed wholeheartedly, of course, but he'd never let Aaron really know that.  He was aware that Aaron would be hailing a cab to JFK soon, flying back to his real life, and he wanted to take in every fleeting moment with the straight laced FBI Agent that could field dress his wounds as foreplay.  What had begun as an odd friendship based on mutual loss had become the only saving grace for Frank's heart.  </p><p>“Will you miss me when I go?”</p><p>“No way,” Frank spat, finishing his bagel and licking his fingers noisily.  “Won't even remember your name.  Barely remember your name now.”</p><p>Aaron rolled his eyes and plopped down on the floor beside Frank.  </p><p>“Don't stay away so long next time,” Frank whispered, resting his head on Aaron's shoulder in the first show of vulnerability since they'd met in the alley.  Aaron smiled softly.  </p><p>“I'll do my best.”</p><p>“You said that last time, mister jetting around the country to solve everyone's problems.  If you stay away too long I might start causing you problems up here...bring that team of yours up here to come and find me.”</p><p>“You wouldn't dare.”</p><p>“Watch me, Hotchner.”</p>
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